Routines
by Puck the Faerie
Summary: It is almost a routine to Jackson, taking notes on Lisa.
1. Chapter 1

At precisely 10 PM, he walked into the little corner bar and sat down in the little tucked-away back of the room, pulling out a yellow pad of paper and a pen. The busboy gave him a knowing look: ah, a writer! They got a lot of those; sulky folk who sat in the smoky bar and jotted down notes or badly written, stream-of-conscious poetry; it could get pretty annoying when they were drunk.

The busboy was, of course, very wrong.

She came in about twelve minutes later. It was a guarantee to find her alone in this bar on the twenty-seventh of every month. Jackson presumed that this was a date drenched in particularly bad memories; a bitter break-up, perhaps? He wrote this thought down quickly. It could be used against her.

Her hair was pulled back into a pony-tail, and she looked the part of a responsible hotel manager. From routine, Jackson knew that by the end of her hour-long reverie, she would be slightly sweaty from the humid atmosphere. Her make-up would be smeared at the edges, and she would blur slightly: while mildly intoxicated, she seemed to hover, to not fully be there. Could this affect her decision making? He wrote this down, too.

Tonight was the same as all of the other nights she came here. He had a few other of these legal pads laying in his apartment, brimming with observations and thoughts and lists. Her purse was black and purchased at Nordstrom's, she didn't like to wear jeans, she had a fondness for beets. Small particles of her life were caught on his legal pads, like fly paper.

She was a workaholic, she liked dramas but wouldn't say no to a romantic comedy or foreign film, she didn't like the slivers of dried-up glue rubber cement left. She used teeth whitening strips. At the library, she went through stages of authors, and last month had been Murakami. This month, she was addicted to Harlequin romances. She used to play lacrosse, but now she took daily walks instead and occasionally visited the gym with a loose friend, though secretly she hated it. She didn't like eggplants. She was afraid of flying.

This last statement was underlined several times on his second legal pad; it could prove useful in the future.


	2. Chapter 2

He slipped the tape into the VCR methodically, as he had done every Sunday morning for the past few months.

It was from her living room (the sticker on the side read _L-R-#63_), and had been taken last night. One of his associates had hidden cameras in each of her rooms earlier, and the tapes were rounded up every week. Jackson kept his legal pads close to him, pen in hand.

Monday morning. She hurried out the door before his eyes, and he pushed the fast-forwarding before the film became too tedious. Ah, that's it - five o'clock PM, late afternoon, early evening. She walked back in, raking her hair back with her fingers.

A fly buzzed on the wall.

She slipped out of the room (took one left - she was headed for either the kitchen or bathroom), and Jackson leaned forward again to move to the next part of the tape.

---

He will admit that he watches her change. It's disgusting of him, yes, but it isn't as though he can see very closely. Her back is usually towards the camera, so it's okay, he tells himself. This isn't pornography, this is his job.

Luckily, the camera in her bathroom is _outside_ of the shower. He isn't entirely sure if he would watch her, if it wasn't, but a gentlemanly note in him likes to think he wouldn't.

Jackson Ripner's life is not particularly fascinating; it is dull and tactless and currently revolves around the life of a rather dull woman. From books or television or the movies, the idea of the assassin is sleek and futuristic: clothed in black, they prowl the undercity at night, knife in hand and gun in its holster, as they climb around to rid their victims of life. Exciting work. Of course, Jackson isn't the actual assassin, but the cinema likes to forget about _his_ job. The killer is always the public's subject, not the organizer.

Meanwhile, Jackson sits at home or tails Lisa. Interesting at first, but soon stale. People are boring. Lisa, in particular, is boring. Her life revolves around her work. There is the occasional movie night, the occasional call on he phone from an old acquaintance or family member, but those are few and far between, and Jackson has been regulated to staring at her while she types up hotel schedules or makes macaroni and cheese. The most exciting thing she's done is get up to make scrambled eggs at three in the morning.

In general, the day-to-day order of living is not interesting to the passer-by. Or stalker.

---

Lisa doesn't suspect a thing. That is probably the best part of the job, the glee that smudges him when he imagines the look on her face when he reveals his plans to her. Will she begin to cry? Will she whimper and plead or scream and cause a scene? He has formulated a million excuses for almost any possible antic he could be faced with. Sometimes, he daydreams of accidentally bumping her into the street, or possibly helping her find a book in the bookstore, or something. She'd thank him, perhaps, and he would grin and slip out a secret of her life. Her eyes would widen in shock and he would smile down at her. He hasn't thought what would happen next. He doesn't really plan to.

It is the next day when he marks off the calender that he realizes next week is the flight. Next week, she will be back from her grandmother's funeral, and the plan will go into action. Smoothly. Greased clogs will slide slickly into place and steps will form, new path charted. "If you don't cooperate, your father will die," he whispers, and savors the words, the power that comes from them and the slip of letters from his throat.

He raises his hand and marks a solid black "x" over the day. One more week. Just one more week.


	3. Chapter 3

His shoes formed a clip-clopping horse pattern on the sidewalk as he walked down the street, stopping in front of her apartment building. He squinted up at it, and found her room after a moment scanning.

His fingers tangoed to his pocket, and he pulled out a little black pair of binoculars. She wasn't there, of course - she had left three days ago, for the funeral - but a lamp was on, and it lent a butter light to the corner it was placed. He focused his binoculars in, checking for any signs of intruders. Jackson had made his way to her building nightly, to make sure it was alright. (Strange things happened, he knew). The apartment was as familiar to him as his own.

In the back of his mind, a thought passed that he was being almost _friendly_, but it snuck away quickly. It would be cruel if some petty burglar made away with something, he thought. She didn't have anybody close enough to her that she would ask to guard her home for her, so he became the next best thing. Charming, a man soon to be threatening her life is going out of his way to make sure her house wasn't threatened. Putting his binoculars away, he sighed disgustedly at himself, and ambled back to his apartment. He did not go back again.

---

Excitement cracked over his head like a broken egg, and it pooled down his head and puddled around his throat. He couldn't breathe very well. The moments before the start of a mission was always like this for Jackson; he felt almost giddy. It was the closest he ever felt to being like a child again. Provided, of course, that the child killed people for money.

The airport was a hassle, but that was to be expected. He had plenty of time, plenty of time. He flipped through a magazine while in line.

_Delayed_, the cool voice over the loudspeaker relayed.

Jackson snapped his reading material shut with an angry flick of his wrist, and scanned the airport for her head. Nothing.

---

Waiting to store their luggage - he slipped behind her - "Oh, here, read this. My dad's given me enough to start my own library." The woman slobbered out a thank-you and wandered off in her grand-motherly way, and Jackson suppressed himself from recoiling.

Rude passenger - first words - a smile.

This would be easy. Jackson began to finally relax.

---

You know the drill, he murmured to himself, and launched into charismatic mode, scanning her face.

_I've seen you drunk, or haggard and exhausted, giggly, jubilant, I've seen it all_, he thought to himself as they chatted on about alcoholic drinks and names and grandmothers. Perfectly innocent banter. He had planned this out with one of those ridiculous romantic comedies she secretly enjoyed in his head. He had watched them along with her, bored to death, but secretly enjoying a few scenes. They occasionally made him laugh.

His phone rang.

---

He could not go back now. So he sunk himself into his uncomfortable coach seat and feigned surprise when her seat turned out to be next to his.


	4. Chapter 4

Ink-stained fingers scrabbled over yellow legal pads, bone meeting skin meeting pen, thoughts scratched in a soup of gobbledegook. Arrows were drawn to related paragraphs, questions were scrawled in the margins, and small drawings littered the page.

Theories were thick in the air.

Half-crumpled sheets of his legal pad lay solemnly at his feet, and his bare feet kicked at them as he set his pen down, lying back and rubbing his eyes. It was four in the morning. Jackson decided it was time to perhaps go sleep.

---

His notes came back to him during lift-off, and he smiled to himself as he bounced in his seat. Next to him, Lisa had begun to stiffen and close her eyes.

It was when they were off that he launched his surprise. Her eyes widened, just as they had done in his numerous imaginations and ruminations of the scene, and she looked almost like she would vomit. (_Please, not on my shirt_.) A sick glee rose in him like a blush.

_Click_, went his mind, capturing this scene for later love. An attachment had formed in him for Lisa. He wanted to remember this moment forever; it was almost like a first date, an anniversary. He didn't have very good relationships with women.

She is going to be sick! _Sit down, you dumb bitch_.

Finally, she listened.

In many of his daydreams, she had become an accomplice to him, forming an impromptu Bonnie and Clyde. He would take her along with him, and she would tag, it would be merry, pleasant, he'd finally get some sex after years, maybe he'd leave the business. A glass of red wine.

This was not going to happen. Lisa was not going to cooperate.

This thudded. It sort of hurt -a breaking of delusions.

---

_I am going to kill her_. Would she ever get out of the goddamn bathroom? The kid was staring at him.

He slipped inside.

While she wriggled about and he threatened her, a strange feeling of dominance tinged him, like frostbite beginning at the fingers. Like clockwork, a happiness of his total control of the situation. This feeling was probably the reason he had entered his choice of work - the need for power.

It was a frightening need.

Guttural threats came from him, feeling as large and real and whole as the eggs snakes swallowed. She was cowering, and his fingers swept over her sweater and shirt, rough skin petting that scar like sandpaper. His fingers were filing it off of her. Seeing that scar was chilling, but instantly, he understood. Something dramatic _had_ happened to her, and all of this theories from his crumpled notes flushed back to him. "So, that's what it is," he whispered, almost smiling. Checkmate.

Now, torturing her into making that phone call would only be too easy.


	5. Chapter 5

"It happened two years ago...the scar."

He turned his head.

"It happened in a parking lot, in broad daylight..."

There was a strange glimmer around her. Either she had another stupid plan or...did she trust him?

At least he knew that all of his guesses about that damn scar had been wrong.

"...he held a knife to my throat the entire time. And I have to spend the last two years trying to convince myself..."

"That it was beyond your control?"

"No...that it would never happen again."

And then she struck. As he squabbled like a chicken, she ran away. Ghastly, blooded murder threats tried to crawl, maggot-like, from his mouth, but the only sounds he could make were outrageous and gruesome warbles. Her foot, her foot...She ran away.

He had sort of cared for her, hadn't he? Possibly maybe. He had told her the plain facts, and had prevented her from doing anything stupid - the mirror, for instance. She had seemed to forget that _he_ had the power in this situation. Her father's life was his choice.

"Oh!" They had discovered the pen.

---

A woman was walking quickly, her bare arms swinging like a soldier's, and her facial expression was half-crazed and hungry. Beth set her newspaper down, un-crumpled her napkin, and picked her pen up from her black purse.

_A woman is chased by her ex-lover. He is an utter sadist, and has promised to kill a member of her family if she does not agree to date him again. This happens on a plane. Cue aggression? She knees him in the groin? Must ponder when home._

She clicked the cap back onto the pen, a self-satisfied smile on her face. She had a million of these little notes tucked away at home, all with plot ideas. Writer's block could strike at any moment, and the best cure for it, she had found, was to find a slip of paper with an idea struck out on it in her spidery handwriting. She felt that this one was going to be good.

---

Good ol' sunny Florida. Jackson hated this state, particularly now.

The doctor had given him all the news he needed: he wouldn't die. So he had wrenched that ugly alien pen out of his throat and ran away, murder on his mind.

---

A tall, grim-looking man was half-running, half-walking the same path that the woman had not seven minutes before. Sighing, Beth took out her pen again.

_The ex-lover lives! He's after the woman, after she hurt him (obv., not deadly), and he wants revenge. Careful to not make it cheesy. Does this sound like a B-movie sequel? Cue slasher music._

Maybe she would leave this part out.

---

He had excelled at board games as a kid. Relatives and friends refused to play them with him, after he had beaten them at _Clue_ for the twelfth time. The smug sound of his voice saying "Checkmate" caused his first girlfriend to break up with him.

Logic. That was all that was needed.

So where was Lisa? A pair of familiar high-heels caught the outer point of his eye. Ah. Wouldn't it have been smarter to leave the airport? Maybe hide out it the woman's bathroom? No, there were guards, now. He couldn't let them swoop down for the kill.

She spotted him and ran away.

---

The feel of her heel arching against his hand - but it struggled free.

---

_I would like to take this time to thank all of my readers. No, it isn't finished yet. I appreciate all of your reviews - I get the oddest goopy-warm feeling reading them. It's fantastic. Thank you. I hope all of you continue to enjoy this fic._


	6. Chapter 6

They took him to the hospital. They took him to the hospital and hooked him up to noisy machines that buzzed like a refrigerator in his ears and stuck tubes down his throat as he gagged. And he slept and healed in this very private hospital, and when he was recovered the doctor handed him a pair of car keys.

"Alright, here you go," Dr. Murphy said as Jackson's fingers wove around the keys. The men that Jackson worked for were very protective of their privacy, and very careful concerning their experts.

He stuck the keys in and drove away. On the seat next to him, the newspaper murmured news concerning the almost-deaths of the Keefes, and heroics of Lisa the Hotel Manager. Jackson gritted his teeth.

---

In his new apartment, he accidentally cut his thumb while slicing carrots for dinner. The comforting taste of his own blood soothed him; and he liked to think of the cycle of blood coming from the body and going back to it, round and round. The calender said that it was the full moon. This was one thing he and Lisa were sharing - he supposed she was probably bleeding then, too.

He did not come out of his apartment. Everything was taken care of.

Outside, the world went on as always, wars starting and stopping and people crying, dying, falling in love, screwing, giving birth, killing, falling, the whole kit and caboodle. Inside, Jackson ironed his shirts and learned how to fold his sheets into hospital corners. He did not read novels; instead, he read his numerous notebooks that brimmed with details of her life.

Maybe Lisa was making tea. Maybe she was taking a shower, or chatting on the telephone. Maybe she was thinking of him.

Chilling, but he smiled.

The sound of the knife hitting the wooden cutting board gave him an idea.

---

"Hello, this is Lisa speaking."

He swallowed and hung up. When he brought the payphone to his ear again, he realized how stupid he was. The consistent _beep_ of the dial tone brought him down, and he closed his eyes, imagining the scene. It was his first time outside of his apartment in over year, and the January air stung him, giving recollections of failed childhood snowball attacks.

His hair had been inexpertly chopped shorter by himself the night before. He had stared into his plain mirror, tufts of hair sticking to his slightly bloodied fingers, and his eyes had burned out at him, the strangest thing in his stark bathroom. The walls were white: canvases, he had mused. Jackson felt like he was going crazy.

He had lost some weight, and his already-thin frame was on the verge of appearing sickly. His transformation had been simple and effective. He didn't look like himself; he didn't look like the smug assassin manager.

He looked like a failure.

In his apartment that night, he started a pile of his notes. Burning or burying them was out of the question, but he wanted them out of his sight, and so had flung a blanket over them. There was a two-day-old wound on his face, where he had cut himself shaving. It winked out, crescent-like, from the curve of his chin. It was very dark out, and his wound corresponded to the moon.

"I'll find her," he said out-loud to his bones and papers. "I'll mark her, and she'll be sorry." He knew it was a cliche, but he couldn't help himself.

The bitch had failed him.


	7. Chapter 7

As he sat inside of his car, with his breath billowing around him, Jackson had an epiphany. He would not kill her, as he had been intent on doing for the last month. He would hurt her to the _point_ of death, like she did to him, and then he would flee and perhaps allow himself to be arrested. It wouldn't matter, because, after his goal, there wasn't much more he had.

It was probably going to be one of his last jobs. He would have retired and move to a tiny apartment and work someplace quiet, like a grocery store, and relax. After a year of that, he would probably move on to bigger and better things - a keen mind is a terrible thing to waste. But the rest and relaxation would have rejuvenated him, and he missed this opportunity terribly.

Wasn't it funny how now he could relax, actually? He could kick back and abandon this personal mission and go work in a grocery store and read magazines and watch television. He could complete crossword puzzles, his personal vice. Screams and the bitter smells of weaponry and charts of statistics and plans would evaporate from his skin's memories.

That would be giving up, he thought to himself sharply, and I do _not_ surrender.

He lurked around her neighborhood, instead. Risks were taken and eventually paid off. His little tape recorder confidently played back to him her daily routines. It was almost like old times. Sort of like flipping through a scrapbook, staring at photographs lovers might take. Memorize her little habits, like he had done last year. "Lisa, I'm home."

Delusions, every one of them.

Jackson fingered his scalp. His hair smoothed down like baby chicken feathers, but stood up again once his hand moved away. He still kept it short - the longer hair had made him appear nicer, almost chivalrous. This new look made him appear to be a half-crazed wild animal, and this is the look he wanted to confront Lisa with.

It was January, and the sidewalks were nearly frozen. She had moved to another apartment, more or less the same quality as before. His binoculars let him look right into her room, and once, as he rooted through garbage, he found a bag of hers - a veritable treasure trove of Lisa clues. He took it home with him and analyzed it for a week.

Thankfully, he still had his notes from the first time. Her routine had not changed very much - one of the few differences was that she no longer went to bars or cafes at night. She did not drink alcohol anymore, either, and, on the twenty-seventh of each month, she went to the library instead of hanging around over a drink and wallowing.

Good for her, he thought. Get yourself out of a rut. Just like he was doing, only less crafted. Less thought-out and planned, and without the violence. He almost admired her for that.


	8. Chapter 8

He went home that night and burnt his yellow legal pads, and snipped the film of the tapes, and flushed his paper-shredded strips of photographs down the toilet as he heaved drily.

The face of a true coward glared at him when his eyes tracked down his mirror. Defeat hung from his limbs like smoke, but it would not dissipate as the clock murdered the minutes. The fire alarm in his living room would not began to tweet shrilly, and his skin would not crumple like the paper of his legal pads had. Humans build their own cages; maybe this was his.

Jackson was ashamed, as well, and this was the worst feeling of them all.

His feet had crunched through the snow like grasshoppers, and the old adrenaline had curled up in his stomach as if it were really a bad soup. Food-poisoning, fear-poisoning. First, he thought he would do something, but then he threw up in the city's bushes, as if he was some relentless, pathetic drunk. The orange leftovers on his chin dried, and he rubbed them off with snow. It plucked away the realization of his excitement and transformed his face into something red and puckered and almost new.

After being washed with snow, how could anyone continue on and...and do what he wanted to do to her. Impossible. With regret, he stood to his feet and crept closer to her building.

It was very early morning, and the greys and blues of winter light had only begun to smear the sky.

He crouched awkwardly. His muscles and ligaments pulled painfully, tightly, and short: it used to be he could touch his toes, but that was an old dream now. Recuperation did not take kindly to Jackson; it bred laziness, which in turn birthed dissatisfaction, blame, and anger. Rich raw emotions that could be funneled, but all his were doing were spiraling, bloodied like a butcher's meat slapped on a grocer's counter. He was like watercolors: he could be washed away. No great person was admired for killing, no "man of magnitude", no martyr. Jackson had never really admired killers, and now he felt in danger of becoming one.

The silver idea that turned like a Christmas stew in his head was one of surrender, of defeat, of perhaps wisdom.

A police car drove down the road fast and he vomited again. This time it wasn't for him; next week?

He ran away home, with his tail between his legs. The very epitome of anticlimactic. His lips was broken open from where he had chewed it in nerves, and in the mirror Jackson realized what a Frankenstein monster he had become.

_-fin._

---

_Thank you for reading this. I'm sorry for the incredible lateness of this - truly horrific writer's block._


End file.
